


(What if) The Sky Falls Again

by badgerling



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:31:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgerling/pseuds/badgerling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not every former Russian assassin and current valuable asset gets a free pass at S.H.I.E.L.D.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(What if) The Sky Falls Again

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Blair for the beta. All remaining mistakes are my own, not hers. All characters in the story belong to Marvel. No infringement is intended. 
> 
> Takes place several years before the events of the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

On the list of things she expected after being ushered into S.H.I.E.L.D. custody, being locked in a cell was not one of them. The gauntlet of expectations ran from shot in the head to hanged by the neck until dead. She neither expected, nor wanted, mercy, no matter how much Agent Barton tried to play the eternal optimist. Natasha wasn't stupid, and she knew why Barton had been sent after her.

And all of his talk about her being too valuable of an asset, about her information being too critical was just nervous chatter. That was obvious, even to her, considering the way his eyes cut away from her, like he was less worried about making her feel better, and more concerned with what would happen to him when he brought a failed mission home to his boss. 

But she didn't get the executioner's noose, she got a cell with walls made out of glass. Less like a prisoner, more like an animal in the zoo. A wounded animal, because doctors were out of the question when one was, apparently, a prisoner of some secret war. So she sat in a chair that was straight-backed and cushion-less, like something taken from an office building cafeteria, and the only sound in her cell was her breathing and the faint 'plink' when blood slid from the wounds on her hands, down her fingers, and fell to the floor. 

Director Fury was right outside the cell, in a chair that matched hers, but he hadn't said a word since she'd been brought in two hours ago, bleeding and broken. 

He just watched her. Studying her. And she watched him. Studying him. Looking for weaknesses. Because as much as she was willing to sell a few secrets, Natasha knew that might not be an option, and she might have to fight her way out of here. The man sitting outside of her cell was strong, his hands clasped in his lap, and even with the fact that he had only one eye, Natasha knew it wouldn't be an easy fight. 

She tried to focus on breathing, cataloguing each spike of pain, each twinge that told her a muscle was strained or a bone broken, and every movement send a shard of white hot heat down her arm because there was an arrow wound through her left shoulder. She would, if she got the chance, have a conversation with Barton about shooting to kill. That wounded animals were worse than anything, that the end of the day he shouldn't try to make friends with the people he had been sent to kill. 

She was so focused on the sound of her own breathing, on taking stock of the injuries and whether or not the wound in her shoulder was going to become infected (there was a thirty-seven percent chance of that happening right now, and that chance was only growing the longer she sat there with no hope of medical attention) that she missed someone joining Director Fury outside her cell. Average, nondescript, the perfect federal agent, too bland to ever be remembered after an incident. 

But Natasha knew him. He had been on the transport back to the Helicarrier. Coulson, she vaguely remembered Barton saying. 

"Director. Agent Barton is waiting in your office." Fury looked from her to Coulson, then back again before standing up. 

"We'll talk more tomorrow, Miss Romanoff," Fury said, his voice cold but casual, like they were friends who hadn't seen each other in years and had no idea how to interact anymore. For her part, Natasha just snorted slightly before wincing at a deeper, longer spike of pain racing down her back. 

"We didn't talk today, Director." That comment only made Fury tilt his head at her as he lifted his eyebrow just slightly. 

"Hmm. Imagine that," he said, as he and Coulson headed for the door. The sound of the security door closing behind them sounded loud and final, echoing even through the walls of her cell, and there was a moment where she worried, just briefly, about being left there. Permanently. Left to waste away, to die alone and forgotten, but she forced that fear out of her mind and tried to focus on her breathing, on the pain, on what tomorrow might bring. 

Turned out, it didn't bring a lot of things. Natasha didn't remember it, or the day after, or the majority of the day after that. She wasn't entirely sure if she had passed out from the pain of broken bones and infected wounds or the blood loss or maybe she had been drugged, but whatever the case, when she finally did wake up, she was no longer in a glass cell. Not that the sterile hospital room was much better, not considering she was handcuffed to the bed. 

"The director said we couldn't be too careful. You could hurt yourself." Coulson again, and it took a second of blinking whatever it was that had knocked her out for days out of her eyes and mind before she could focus on him. 

"There are better ways to keep me docile and compliant." The words sounded like a suggestion, something off hand, an alternative to the metal cuffs or even padded ones, but her tone was practically daring Coulson to try any of those ways. Natasha felt stronger now that she was no longer leaking precious bodily fluids or trying to keep her body from breaking down completely. S.H.I.E.L.D. apparently had better doctors that she thought. 

"Contrary to what your superiors in Russia would have you believe, this agency is actually better than tactics like that." Natasha's only response to that was a vague thoughtful sound as she tested the bonds at her wrist. Her 'superiors' didn't talk about S.H.I.E.L.D., not in exact terms, like they had always been half-afraid that Nick Fury was actually listening in. So it had always been in vague terms and codenames, which made it easy for Natasha. 

Because when she said, "My superiors never said anything of the sort," it wasn't entirely a lie. It was 'The Opposition' that was fond of dirty, underhanded tactics, not S.H.I.E.L.D. Coulson's mouth curled up slightly, not quite a smile and it didn't reach his eyes. 

"Of course, Miss Romanoff, I didn't mean to imply something untoward," and anything else the man might have said was lost when the door opened and Director Fury stepped inside. Neither man said anything, but Fury looked at Coulson and Coulson nodded before leaving Fury alone with her. And she was still cuffed to the bed. 

"Is this where the interrogation starts?" Natasha kept herself from looking right at him, almost hoping that down-turned eyes would make her seem more vulnerable, more malleable. It had worked on Barton, after all, but Fury simply snorted. 

"Barton told me all about your tactics, Miss Romanoff. He fell for it completely, by the way, and I don't appreciate losing my best agent because he had a crush." Fury sounded very matter of fact about it, and Natasha's eyes narrowed a little at the past tense he used. She wondered if Fury thought she should feel guilty about whatever might have happened to Barton, and hell, she wondered if she _should_ feel guilty. Natasha didn't, though. Barton had made his bed. His punishment was his own, and considering his actions had ended with her handcuffed and in custody, she had no sympathy. “I also know that we wouldn’t have found you unless you wanted to be found. We’re good, but we’re not quite that good.” That was a lie. She knew that, but she also knew that she was just as good as S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best. 

"Then I'll tell you what I told him. I know things, and I'm willing to bargain with what I know." Natasha's voice went from soft and vulnerable to hard and confident. Vulnerable worked with Barton, not with Fury, and she made a mental note of that. In case she needed it later. In case all she had to bargain with wasn't enough. For his part, Fury just cocked his head, lifting one eyebrow slightly, and Natasha was momentarily worried that Fury was about to leave again. 

"Bargain for what, Agent Romanoff? You are, technically, a foreign spy on American soil, and that doesn't really go over well with my superiors." Fury sounded reasonable, like he would actually listen to whatever she had to offer, really would give her a fair chance, but maybe it was the fact that his eyebrow was still slightly raised, head still cocked a little to the left, but it didn't matter. She knew she wouldn't get away with only giving partial information. 

"I suppose it's whatever you think this information is worth. Whether or not you want bragging rights for turning the Black Widow. Whether or not you still feel like punishing someone else for Barton's stupidity." Which was harsh, yes, and she knew it. It was also true, because Barton's choice to defy orders was stupid, bringing her in was stupid, agreeing to all of this and possibly getting himself killed was stupid. Fury actually seemed to smile at her comment, so he probably agreed with her assessment. 

"You're not being punished. You haven't offered me anything of real value, so that might change." Fury clasped his hands in front of himself again as he looked down at her, and all Natasha could do was look up at him, meeting his eyes with more confidence than she actually felt. There had always been a chance that what she knew, what she had to offer, that it wouldn't be enough. Her fist clenched, and she turned her wrist, testing the cuffs holding her in place again. 

Before she could say anything, Fury pulled two things out of the pocket of his coat. A tape recorder, literal tape recorder, nothing digital, nothing easy to manipulate or hack, and the key to the handcuffs. He placed the recorder on the tray attached to the bed, and he unlocked her cuffs. She sat up now that it was actually easier to move, rubbing her wrist almost idly, almost because she had been told once upon a time that that was what normal people did after being released from handcuffs, and Natasha picked up the tape recorder, turning it over in her hands as she studied it. 

"Give me something useful, Agent Romanoff. Something that I can tell the World Security Council that would convince them that leaving their second worst nightmare alive and not bleeding to death in the streets of St. Petersburg is a good idea." Fury actually sounded skeptical that she would have that kind of information, but Natasha was more hung up on being second best/worst _anything_. 

Not that she got the chance to ask, because Fury was leaving the room before she could even gather her thoughts. A nurse brought in a change of clothes and a package of extra blank tapes shortly after, but he didn't stick around to talk, and his boots were not hospital regulation, and she was clearly still under heavy guard. That fact was driven home when the nurse left and locked the door to her hospital room behind him. 

She took a deep breath as she looked down at the tape recorder again, pressing the buttons on the side to make it start recording. "My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. I am sometimes called the Black Widow." Which was such a boring way to start, but she knew that she would need to verify her identity on each tape. Just to make it official, just to make sure no one could claim that her confession was done by anyone else. 

Once she started talking, it was fairly easy to just keep going. Out of necessity, she skipped some things, glossing over the facts about her past, the stuff she could barely remember, the stories she had been told by the man who had raised her. The decades she may or may not have lived. She stuck to the stuff that could be traced back to her, the stuff she had trained for, the blood that actually stained her hands. And she named names. 

That was all the first tape was. A run down of names, facts, dates, missions. Things S.H.I.E.L.D. probably already knew. Nothing that would save her life. Nothing good enough. 

Natasha changed the tape, pressed record, and for a minute, she sat in silence. When she finally did start speaking, it was in Russian, and it was very specific. Things she had spent most of her life not thinking about she laid out clearly and plainly. And it was things she knew that S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't know about. The covert things, the accidents arranged just to get someone out of the way of her cover story, the random killings that were never solved, never placed at her feet. 

She filled up another tape, then another, and half of another before exhaustion (or maybe drugs in the food. She doubted Fury just enough, and suspected just a little bit more that she was still in danger here) claimed her. the next morning, there was another change of clothes, another package of tapes, and all the ones from yesterday were gone. 

She lost track of how many days after that. How many tapes. How long she talked but one morning, she didn't find scrubs, this time there was a t-shirt and shorts, PT gear and Coulson waiting right outside the door. He didn't explain, didn't say a word really, just waved the armed guards off, and she wasn't sure how exactly she earned that much trust from someone she had only seen once or twice. 

Coulson didn't speak as they walked down the hallway, and despite not being in thin, flimsy scrubs, she still felt more vulnerable. It was possible she was being lead to her execution, and she watched the hall, watched the open doors, the crevices, everything just in case someone attacked. Just in case this was some kind of assassination. But she was simply escorted into a training room with workout pads on the floor and the walls. She walked to the center of the room and turned to face Coulson, spreading her hands in a wordless question. 

Coulson smiled a tight smile at that, shaking his head. "This is just an evaluation. You've been in custody for weeks now. We need to make sure what your training is and if there's been any...atrophy. For lack of a better word." He stood, feet shoulder width apart, hands loose at his side, and Natasha mirrored him. On purpose. Because she could guess what was about to happen, and she wasn't about to lose a fight with a guy who typically wore suits. 

When Coulson attacked, it lacked grace or finesse, it was brutal and efficient, and she managed to hold him off. For a moment. All it took, though, was one fake punch toward her stomach that instinct told her to block and leave her shoulder open, and the next thing she knew, she was on her back, the palm of Coulson's hand pressing against her formerly wounded shoulder sending a white hot burst of pain through her body and setting her teeth on edge. 

It had always twinged with pain, ever since she had woken up in the hospital, but she had learned to ignore it, to live with it, but now she couldn't as the pain sliced through her and nearly made her throw up the horrible food that passed for breakfast on the Helicarrier. And this time, when instinct told her to act, she was seeing red and thinking about death. Her legs wrapped around Coulson and her hips twisted sending him tumbling away from her. 

Natasha moved fast, her body trembling with pain, new shards of it moving with each heartbeat. By the time the pain faded and she started coming back to her senses, Coulson was on his stomach, her knee against his back, one arm twisted behind him, his hand in hers. She should have let him go, but instead, she squeezed her hand until she heard bones crack and Coulson grunt. 

"Natasha." That was said through gritted teeth, his voice amazingly blank and emotionless, even as his face creased with pain. The sound of her name finally made him let her go and she rolled to her feet. When she was a few feet from him, he finally got to his feet, cradling his hand as he looked at her. "I'm sorry. We needed to find out how bad that was." He gestured with his injured hand toward her shoulder. "Has it hurt ever since you've arrived?" 

Natasha tilted her head slightly as she looked at him. She was trying to figure out what other time she would have been injured, because all she had been doing was recording memories and missions and faces and names. Not fighting. "It's just pain, Coulson. You adapt, you adjust." That was what her handlers had always taught her. Pain could be overcome. Always. 

"You favor that side of your body, even when you're just sitting down. It makes you weak, and it makes you a liability." Natasha's eyes narrowed at that, and she took a step forward, but Coulson held up his uninjured hand to stop her. "In the field. It will make you a liability in the field. We need to get it looked at." 

"So you attacked me in order to see how injured I was." It wasn't a question. Natasha clearly already knew the answer, and at least Coulson had the sense to look sheepish, as he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. 

"The director said it would be easier than asking since you don't really open up and share your feelings." Natasha rolled her eyes. 

"Next time, send me to your agency therapist. It will save on your medical bills," and Coulson actually smiled then, a little, one corner of his mouth curving up and Natasha wasn't sure it was a smile, not a smirk. 

"I'll inform the director for next time," he said as he tapped his earbud, and Natasha heard the soft beep as the communications device activated. She stood, technically, at parade rest as she listened to Coulson arranging medical tests and MRIs and medicine to figure out how to repair her shoulder. Once everything was set, he gestured for the door. "Ladies first." 

Which only made Natasha grin as she walked past him. "Sorry about your hand," she said, tossing the words over her shoulder like it was an afterthought. Like it was his own fault he had been injured. 

"No, you're not," he said, following her into the hallway to walk her back to her room. 

After that, there was a whole new routine. Tests with doctors, meetings with a S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist, training with Coulson, physical therapy for her shoulder, or more recording sessions. She knew what was in store based on what clothes were in the chair by her bed. 

Then one morning, Natasha didn't wake up to blank tapes or clean sweats and locked doors. Instead, the door was open, and on the chair next to her bed was a uniform. Close enough to the one she had worn when she had arrived at the Helicarrier, but the patches were different. So were the weapons, new gauntlets resting next to new handguns, and Natasha only paused briefly to wonder at the trust implied here. 

Because giving her weapons meant the World Security Council had seen her value. Or Fury didn't care about their approval. She was, actually, betting on the second option. Natasha had never really had faith that the World Security Council would see value in her, but she still got dressed. And noticed that while her arm had stopped hurting weeks ago, there was a brand new pain. Brief and sharp, on the same arm that had been shot, but lower. She ran her fingers over the source of the pain and felt a small, hard bump. 

A tracer. She assumed. 

Natasha rubbed the tracer slightly before shaking her head and stepping into the hallway, only to be met with two armed guards. The corners of her mouth turned up into something that wasn't quite an innocent smile and wasn't a smirk either. "Fury's trust only goes so far, doesn't it, boys?" But the guards didn't answer as one of them stepped passed her, leading the way down the hallway with the other following behind. For a moment, Natasha was tempted to test the gauntlets, wanting to see if she could make either guard jump just from the sound of the electricity running through them. It was only a momentary urge, and she felt a surprising amount of pride at the fact she didn't give in. 

They escorted her into a meeting room and left her there. Only once she was alone did she test the gauntlets, smiling a little as blue arcs of power flowed over them. Now she felt comfortable, more like Natasha Romanoff, more like the Black Widow than she had in months. 

"Don't get cocky, Nat. Fury sees you playing with those, and he's liable to take your toys away." Natasha whirled around at the sound of a familiar voice she hadn't expected to hear ever again. 

She couldn't help the smile as she greeted, "Barton. Fury said you were dead." She wasn't sure if she was relieved that he wasn't dead or just relieved because that really meant she was no longer in danger of being executed. 

"I never said that. I implied it. There is a difference," Fury said as he stepped into the room, close after Barton. Coulson followed Fury in, pausing only to hand Natasha and Barton ID badges. She looked down at hers, rubbing her thumb over her name, her level one probationary agent status, and smirked a little at Fury who only shrugged. "Not giving you the keys to the kingdom yet, Agent Romanoff." 

"Wait, wait, wait." Barton looked up from his badge, pulling his bow off his back and laying it on the table before he walked up to Fury. His voice sounded angry and annoyed, but only the slight tensing of his jaw was the only physical sign of just how angry he was. "I was level six before-" 

"Before you disobeyed a direct order and brought a potential double agent into _my_ house?" Fury just gave Barton a look, which surprisingly made him back down. Not completely, but enough. "You're damn lucky you're not riding a desk or on guard duty at The Raft, _Probationary_ Agent Barton." 

Natasha ducked her head, trying to stifle a laugh. She wasn't successful, though, because Barton turned to point a warning finger at her. Which only made her laugh harder. "You are incredibly lucky, Barton," she said, spreading her hands in some kind of apology. Barton just rolled his eyes and grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like how much he hated every single person in this room. 

"From now on, you answer to Coulson in the field. Until he's convinced you're not both going to burn this agency to the ground through your combined levels of stupid." Which felt more like a seal of approval than it should have, even for Barton who stood up straight, leveling his shoulders out. Fury turned toward the door, but before he could take a step, Natasha held out her hand to stop him. He didn't say anything. Just waited. 

"Thank you," she said, her voice soft, knowing it wouldn't carry to the other two. Fury actually smiled, just a little, at that. 

"Go, Agent Romanoff. You have a mission. Save the world." He reached out, touching her wrist gently, something close enough to a 'you're welcome' as she was likely to get. 

"So where to, Coulson? Somewhere sunny? I've spent way too much time in cold, snowy countries lately," Barton smiled as he spoke, winking as Natasha joined them at the table. Coulson didn't reply right away as he passed files out to both of them. 

"Budapest." He flipped his copy of the file open to the brief description, taking time to read it. Which only told Natasha that whatever this mission was, Fury had only just assigned it. Apparently something just for the two of them. "We're going to be following up on something called 'Project: Winter Soldier'. Director Fury clearly wants us chasing old Cold War ghosts, but it should be a cakewalk." 

Natasha barely heard what Coulson said after the name of the project. It wasn't a name she had thought about in years. And it wasn't even one that she had mentioned in the tapes she had made. She tore her eyes away from the old, grainy file photos that were clearly decades old to look up at the door. Fury had given this to them specifically. To her, specifically. And now she wondered what, exactly, he knew. And how much. 

"Nat, you coming?" Barton and Coulson were already heading for the door. This team clearly needed supplies, other weapons, stronger weapons, because if anything like the Winter Soldier she remembered was still out there, they were going into this completely unprepared. 

" _Da_." She shook her head, clearing her throat as she stepped forward to follow them out the door. She ignored their looks at her slip into Russian as she corrected, "Yeah. I'm in. Can't let the two of you march off to your deaths alone, right?" She tried to sound confident, like she was just joking, like no one was going to die. But she remembered stories. And training. And blood. 

And when they passed Fury in the hallway, he only gave her a nod. Like he knew exactly what he was forcing her to face. And Natasha made the mental note that, someday, she would kill Nick Fury for sending her after the Winter Soldier. Ghost from her past or someone else using the name, Fury knew what he was doing, and she would make him bleed for it. 

Not today, but someday. 


End file.
